


Starting Over

by worldofmydevising



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mystrade Prompt Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 14:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16160966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worldofmydevising/pseuds/worldofmydevising
Summary: Greg's old life crashes around him...only for a new one to begin.





	Starting Over

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in response to the Mystrade Prompt Challenge - thank you to Mottlemoth and any other lovely people helping coordinate!  
> Prompt:  
> Dialogue:"How did you know?"  
> Circumstances: In a restaurant  
> You must mention: Keys  
> You must use the word: Slam

The resounding slam of the door made Greg feel better. Just for a second. 

He’d done it. _He’d done it._ Six years of infidelity, of tears and arguments, of Lauren’s upturned chin and her eyes _daring_ him to leave because she had him wrapped ‘round her finger and they both knew it—but not any longer.

He’d felt that staying would have killed him.

It was entirely possible that leaving actually would. 

Greg stood outside the flat, feeling suddenly lost and alone and uncertain. He’d lived there for four years now, him and Lauren. Their first home together, and their last. Greg looked up at the red brick, brushed his hand against the wall so hard it hurt. 

They’d been hopeful, when they first moved in. At least he’d been. Lauren had sworn that she’d just been stressed about their future together. All her friends were getting married, she’d said, and what of them? Two years together, and still living on opposite ends of the city. If only they’d get a place together, if only she’d have more _stability_ , if only she’d have more of Greg’s time things would be better. So he’d given it to her. His devotion and freedom and life and his entire fucking _soul,_ and it turned out she’d lied when she’d said it would be enough. 

It was never enough, and it never could be. 

Greg touched his forehead to the brick, cool in the autumn air. He’d loved the house once, but now it just made his heart ache with emptiness. 

The bricks wavered, blending together in a reddish swirl of broken promises. Anger, and sorrow. Disappointment. Shame.

He closed his eyes, hoping he might keep the tears from falling.  

They did anyway.

And then—and then he took in a lungful of cold air, lightly scented with fallen leaves and the familiar smell of what was no longer his neighbourhood, and he started to run.

Greg ran until his lungs started to burn, and then he ran a bit longer, just for good measure, and by the time he collapsed onto the smooth stone of a paved walkway his vision had gone dark and he couldn’t see where he was. But even as he gasped for breath, he felt a vicelike grip loosen from around his lungs, and through his tears Greg managed a half-smile. 

He only hoped he hadn’t accidentally run into someone’s property. God knew all of Scotland Yard would have a laugh seeing D.I. Lestrade arrested for trespassing. In broad daylight on a Sunday afternoon, no less.

Hang on—

He had somewhere to be Sunday afternoons. Sunday afternoons were Mycroft afternoons, and for two years now brunch with Mycroft Holmes had been the highlight of his week. 

Greg struggled to his feet, blinked at the familiar stone facade before him. He might have forgotten (and who wouldn’t have, in the wake of Lauren’s shrieking?), but it seemed his subconscious and legs had led him to the restaurant anyway, and he’d never been more grateful. 

On Sunday afternoons, the world was bright for two hours. 

Haphazardly smoothing down his hair, Greg stepped through the glass doors. He must look a mess, but he didn’t care. He was a little late, but maybe, just maybe, Mycroft would still be there. 

The sight of the immaculately tailored jacket hanging neatly on the coat rack made Greg’s heart clench, and he pushed his way through to what had become _their_ table. 

Mycroft was there, head bent over some manner of life-altering document. He looked up as Greg approached, and Greg felt a wave of relief and happiness wash over him as Mycroft smiled and the gray eyes crinkled just the tiniest bit. 

It was all okay. 

Mycroft’s gaze lingered on Greg a split second longer than it usually did, but then he nodded to the coffee and eggs sitting opposite Mycroft’s own salad. 

“I took the liberty of ordering for you,” said Mycroft, offering a tentative smile. “I do hope you hadn’t planned on breaking from traditional fare—and the coffee should still be warm."

Greg sank gratefully into the soft leather, taking a careful sip of his coffee. He looked up after a long draught to see Mycroft considering him, an inscrutable look on his pale face.

Finally Mycroft reached out a hand—Greg saw that it was trembling, very slightly—and slid a set of keys across the glossy wood. 

“A number of properties around London,” started Mycroft, and then he hesitated for a long moment. “As well as my own. For as long as you need.”

Greg just stared at him.

“How did you know?” he managed, feeling a bit faint. He’d thought he might stay with his brother for a while, but he always hated to impose. Rob already had so much going on. Mycroft’s alternative would be much preferred, but _how the devil…?_

Mycroft leaned back in his seat. “Deduction,” he murmured, “and perhaps a modicum of hope.”

Hope?

Wait—had Mycroft said he’d included keys to his _house?_

Greg didn’t know that he dared to hope, but somehow he did, and he reached across the table for Mycroft’s hand. 

They left that afternoon with their fingers still entwined.


End file.
